by Susan Gloss
When Nell got back to the mansion, she went into the office. She normally wouldn’t hang around at work in her running clothes, but if the events of the previous night had taught her anything, it was that this was far from a regular job. A little bit of sweat and some sneakers were the least of her worries.
She picked up the shoebox she’d taken out of the safe the night before and left on the desk. She remembered seeing some exhibition catalogs rubber-banded together among the other papers, and she dug through the contents of the box until she found them. She sat down on the office floor and spread them out around her, sorting them by date. It was a soothing task that took a bit of the edge off her anxiety. There were thick catalogs from various years of the international Art Basel exhibition in Miami, skinnier pamphlets from Wisconsin galleries, and dozens of publications from shows in Chicago and New York. Some of the catalogs were yellowed and curled at the edges, others were slick and new.
Among the newer items was a small one from an art gallery in New York. The cover read Annie Beck: Elysium. Now that she saw it, Nell remembered having read on an art blog that Annie had done a small, private show that didn’t get very good reviews from the handful of press members who were invited. Here, though, was a catalog that seemed to indicate that Betsy had been there.
The cover of the catalog bore a note handwritten in blue ink: “No. 2?” Nell flipped to the inside, where reproductions of black-and-white photographs had been printed on thick matte paper. She located the image labeled No. 2. The picture was a close-up image of a pair of eyes, dark and bright and framed by laugh lines at the sides. From the way the lashes spread out like spokes, thick with mascara, the subject appeared to be a woman, and not a young one. The rest of her face was obscured by a veil of smoke, but the angle of the woman’s long, graceful neck could be seen at the bottom of the frame. There was something haunting, yet beautiful, about the image, and Nell could see why Betsy had made note of it.
Nell flipped through the rest of the catalog for more handwriting, or for some indication as to whether Betsy had purchased the photograph. She didn’t find anything that gave her an answer, but she did find a folded newspaper clipping tucked into the pages. The article read much like the blog piece Nell had seen.
Beck brings her keen eye for social commentary to her latest project, a potentially groundbreaking photo essay on death and pain management. However, her technical skills fall short of the level required for her ambitious subject matter. Though fans of Beck’s earlier work will no doubt flock to view the full series when it opens in earnest at a later (still unannounced) date, they will likely leave disappointed. Bottom line: Beck should stick to the large-scale, abstract work and performance pieces on which she built her reputation.
In blue ink, a handwritten note had been scrawled in the margin of the article: “How dare an old lady try something new?” Nell smiled. Betsy’s slanted script hinted at her insight and humor. Nell wondered how much Betsy had known about this project when she chose Annie for the residency. Annie’s application said only that she was working on a “groundbreaking photo essay on human pain.” It didn’t say anything about death, like the article mentioned, and certainly didn’t say anything about addiction. If Betsy had traveled to New York to see the exhibition, it was likely she’d met Annie in person. How much had Annie disclosed?
Nell set aside the catalog and sifted through the other scraps, hoping to find anything else that might give her some insight.
“Hello?” At the sound of Josh’s voice in the foyer, she placed the papers back into the box and went out to greet him.
Before Josh even said anything, Nell could tell he didn’t have good news. His shoulders slouched under his rumpled button-down shirt, and one clasp of his thick leather briefcase hung undone. A sense of gratitude washed over her. Josh had spent the entire day at the police station, canceling his lectures to field questions with Annie, simply because he knew it was important to Nell. For a moment, everything else that had happened between them faded, and she went over and hugged him. Josh must not have felt the same warm feeling, though, because he startled at the physical contact from her.
Nell stepped back. “What happened at the police station?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I made every argument I could think of, but they wouldn’t let Annie go. They’re holding her in jail until they can get her into court for an initial appearance tomorrow. Then hopefully they’ll let her out, at least on bond, until the next court date.”
From the earnest expression on his face, Nell could tell that he truly felt terrible about not being able to do more. Josh did not like to fail, and she was certain he saw this as a failure.
“Give yourself a break,” Nell said. “Annie didn’t exactly make it easy for you to defend her. You literally walked in as the cops were holding up a bag full of pot. And, anyway, Annie’s a pretty strong woman.”
Josh cracked a small smile. “I overheard someone say at the police station that a guy was arrested at the Capitol today for disorderly conduct during the Solidarity Sing Along. Perhaps he and Annie can lead a rendition of ‘Have You Been to Jail for Justice?’”
“Did you eat anything?” Nell asked.
Josh shook his head.
“Well, come on, you must be starving.” She brought him to the kitchen, where the untouched plate of cheese and crackers she’d made hours earlier was still sitting on the counter. “I can offer you some cheese that’s been sitting out all day. Or . . .” She opened the cabinets. “A bowl of cereal? Sorry there’s not much else. Except for the monthly dinners, the artists are in charge of their own food.”
Josh grabbed a cereal box from the open cabinet and read the label. “Granola, huh?”
“I know, it’s exactly what you’d picture an artists’ colony having in the cupboard.”
Nell opened the fridge, then shut it. “Sorry, there’s no milk or yogurt or anything.” She handed him a spoon. “Guess grocery shopping hasn’t been a priority.”
Josh sat down at the table, poured the granola into a bowl and ate it dry, with his fingers. When he’d finished one bowl, he poured himself another.
“Did you talk to your friend in the prosecutor’s office? The one who used to teach at the law school?” When Josh didn’t answer right away, she added, “Sorry, I guess maybe you can’t talk to me about Annie’s case.”
“No, I was just chewing,” he said in between bites. “She said it was fine for me to talk to you about it. Anyway, my friend said the DA’s office will likely put together a plea deal.”
“Do you think I should come to court tomorrow?”
Josh shook his head. “Tomorrow she won’t even be in front of a judge, just a court commissioner. It’s pretty short and routine. But eventually, yeah, it might be good for you and the others to show up for some of the court dates, so the judge can see that the residency thing is real and not just some sort of cover for running pot out of the basement.”
Nell shook her head. “It’s ridiculous, right? I mean, that we’re even having this conversation.”
“Yeah. When you got your PhD I can’t say this was a career scenario I ever would have pictured for you.”
“Which part, directing an artists’ colony or defending it from criminal charges?” she asked.
“Both—I mean, neither. I pictured you lecturing alongside slide shows of old paintings. Maybe working for a museum. Definitely something more . . . I don’t know, removed?” He put his spoon down. “Today I realized just how removed my job is. I like teaching and research, but I realized I’ve never represented an actual client. Depending on how far Annie’s case goes, I may need to refer her to an experienced criminal attorney to take over things. I’m a little out of my depth.”
“I don’t think she can afford to pay a private attorney,” Nell said.
“She filled out the paperwork to see if she qualifies for a public defender,” he said. “But I can help her out in the meantime.”
Nell listened a
s he explained what was likely to happen when Annie went in front of the court commissioner the next day. She noticed the fire in his voice as he talked—she hadn’t seen him get this animated over anything in a long time. So much of their lives in the last several months had been mundane at best, a struggle at worst. It was good to see him get excited about something. It was sexy, even.
He caught her watching him and said, “What?”
Nell smiled. “Nothing. I just really appreciate what you’re doing for Annie, and for the Colony. You would have had every right just to tell me to figure it out for myself, after the mess I made of everything with you and me and the money . . .”
Josh set his lips in a firm line. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that. I’m still angry. Like really, really angry.”
And there they were, completely out of sync again. Just as she’d started to feel a spark of attraction for Josh again, he’d snuffed it out by reminding her of just what a mess their marriage had become. Nell looked down at her hands. She noticed that she’d been fidgeting, unconsciously, with the cereal box on the counter, tearing the corners of the cardboard top into little shreds.
“But,” Josh said, “even though I’m still mad at you, I don’t see that as a good reason not to help out.”
A warm feeling expanded inside Nell’s chest. One of the main reasons she loved Josh was that he was a good person, a generous person. He was lending a hand, despite being pissed off on a personal level, because it was the right thing to do.
“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry. Again.”
Josh nodded in acknowledgment. “Anyway, we really can’t afford for you to lose your job right now, so we might as well manage this the best we can.”
Nell cracked a smile in spite of everything and reached out to touch Josh’s hand. Hearing him say “we,” even if he was still angry, was a great comfort.
Odin walked in at that moment and saw them. He looked away, as if it was something he wasn’t supposed to see, or didn’t want to see.
Nell immediately thought of holding Odin’s hands the night before. Guilt churned in her stomach. She had liked the way her hands had felt in Odin’s. His hands were larger and rougher than Josh’s, callused from working with metal. Contact with Odin had sent a tingly thrill all over Nell’s body. It had made her forget, for a moment, about all of her grief and emotional exhaustion.
But the hand Nell held now was her husband’s hand, and he’d just spent an entire night and day at the police station with Annie, without being paid for it, just because she’d asked him to. Josh’s touch didn’t set off the same sort of chemical fireworks now that it once had. But it did give her the solid, reassuring sense that everything would be okay. And, at this moment, it was exactly what she needed. She gave Josh’s palm a squeeze, then stood up straight, slipping her hand out of his.
Josh nodded in Odin’s direction and said, “Hey.”
“Hey.” Odin grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. He swallowed a sip and asked, “Any news?”
“Annie has to stay in jail until her court appearance,” Nell said.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “But something tells me she’s probably rounding up all the other people in jail as we speak, giving them a lecture about speaking truth to power.”
“I was just saying something along those lines,” Josh said, smiling.
Nell forced herself to smile, too, but she was relieved when Odin went back out to the garage.
Chapter Twenty-one
Annie
PIECE: Flyer promoting the Equal Rights Amendment, from an Inauguration Day 1981 demonstration in Washington, DC.
Annie noticed the woman in the red dress right away. Aside from the bold color of her garment, the woman gave off an air of confidence and timeless elegance. Her short gray hair was stylishly cut and a large diamond necklace glittered on her collarbone. She looked older than Annie, in her seventies maybe, though it was so hard to tell. Age seemed more and more irrelevant to Annie. Either you connected with someone or you didn’t. Either you had something to offer to them, or them to you, preferably both, or you moved along. Annie supposed she could have saved her younger self a lot of unnecessary angst had she accepted those basic truths about human interactions decades earlier.
Betsy Barrett was the woman’s name. At least, that’s what Robbie, the curator of the gallery, whispered to Annie as the woman made her way across the room.
“She always buys something when she comes to New York. Always,” Robbie said, resting one elbow on the opposite hand. “Sometimes it’s here, sometimes other galleries. But she comes like she’s got money burning a hole in her pocket. And those are my favorite kind of customers.” Robbie stepped forward and shook Betsy’s hand.
“Betsy, meet Annie Beck,” Robbie said. “She’s our featured artist.”
Betsy smiled at Annie, a genuine smile that brought color to her face, which looked rather pale, now that Annie saw her up close.
“I believe we’ve met once before,” Betsy said.
Annie tilted her head, trying to place the woman. It had been such a long time since she’d shown new work. And exhibition openings were the only type of event where Annie would expect to cross paths with someone like Betsy. The opera-going, gala-attending, diamond-wearing crowd wasn’t exactly Annie’s scene.
“It’s okay if you don’t remember,” Betsy said. “It was ages ago, and only for a moment, at Reagan’s inauguration,” Betsy said. “I was on my way to one of the parties and you stopped me and handed me a flyer about the ERA.”
“Ah,” Annie said. “I could probably print up the same flyer today and it would still be relevant. Just swap in the name of the current president.”
“Unfortunately, I think you’re right,” Betsy said. “I kept the flyer. Back then, I’d already heard of you—the work you did with the Feminist Art Collective.”
“Well, my new project is a big departure from what I’ve done in the past.” Annie waved her hand toward the large black-and-white photographs framed on the gallery walls. “So if you’re looking for that sort of thing again, then you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“I’m not,” Betsy said. “I’m actually much more interested in what you’re doing now.”
“Tell that to the reviewers. I can’t seem to escape the shadow of what I used to create.” Annie shook her head. “Not that I want to. I’m proud of what I did back then. But I didn’t know that that’s all I’d be allowed to do. Ever.”
“Forget the reviews,” Betsy said. “Somehow I don’t think you’ve ever cared much about what critics think. Or what anyone thinks, for that matter.”
“No,” Annie said. “But I do want people to pay attention to what I’m doing. It’s quieter than my past work. More intimate. But I still have a lot to say.” She pointed to a picture that hung on the wall behind Betsy. A woman lay in a four-poster bed with an IV attached to her arm and a collection of prescription bottles scattered on the nightstand. She was propped up against her pillows, a flowered scarf wrapped around her hairless head. And she was reading Proust in French.
“Geraldine,” Annie said. “She was a retired literature professor at Columbia. She spoke three languages. Lived in Paris in the summer of sixty-eight when all the student protests were going on. Bone cancer had her bedridden at the end. Her granddaughters would bring her magazines and movies to keep her occupied, and the magazines just piled up on the dresser, unopened. She said she wanted to spend her last days rereading some of ‘her early loves.’ And so she did. Goethe and Kafka in German, Camus in French.”
“I envy her,” Betsy said. “I’ve tried to pick up a few foreign phrases here and there for travel, but I’m not proficient enough to read much more than a menu or a road sign in any language.”
Annie nodded. “I envied her a little, too. And that’s what I wanted to portray here. That this woman was not someone to be pitied. She’d be the first to tell you that. She led an incredible life. Shar
p right up until she passed away in her sleep.”
“The picture says all of that,” Betsy said.
“Good,” Annie said. “Because if I took the Proust novel and the silk scarf out of the picture, a lot of people would just see a sick old lady. And even with everything I’ve tried to get across in these photos, by surrounding people with the things they love and trying to capture little bits of their lives as they’re forced to look back on them . . . some people still don’t seem to get the message. They see my name and come in here expecting, I don’t know, performance art against the patriarchy or something. And, yes, I had a lot to say about that, once. And I still do. But it’s not the conversation I’m most interested in now. I have other things to say. But no one seems to be able to hear me because the past me is so much louder.”
“I hear you,” Betsy said.
Chapter Twenty-two
Odin
PIECE: Letter from Sloane Foster of Foster Gallery, Minneapolis, to Elizabeth Barrett.
For Odin, all the focus on Caroline’s death, and the investigation surrounding it, brought memories of the first few days after Sloane died. Those memories intensified when the dates on the calendar crept toward the one-year anniversary of her death, in mid-April. He’d been dreading the day and, when it finally arrived, he woke early and went out to the garage. He hoped his work would, if not help him forget, at least turn down the intensity of his recollections. But even his noise-canceling headphones couldn’t silence the clamor in his head. As he worked, the memories hit him like waves. Sometimes he’d go for an hour or more of ebb time, where he thought of nothing but the piece in front of him, coaxing something smooth and identifiable out of twisted, sharp metal. And then, without warning, the “what ifs” and “whys” would crash over him, nearly suffocating him.
When Sloane died, it had been the first warm day of the year. A rare and glorious seventy degrees in early spring. The type of day when everyone in the Twin Cities, from school kids to stockbrokers, heads outside to play in the parks, dine alfresco, and blink in the long-forgotten sunlight. Never mind the fact that winter is certain to bring down its wrath even harder after the tease, and that spring won’t settle in solidly until May. The first warm day brings out the type of selective amnesia that is required for living through midwestern winters.